


The Heisenbergian Method

by flannelcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, M/M, The Winchester Gospels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While visiting the bunker, Charlie accuses Dean of not being honest about his relationship with Cas. And who can argue with her, when her source happens to be Chuck Shurely, Prophet of the Lord?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heisenbergian Method

“You all have a really nice set up—I mean, considering the Illuminati built it a century ago. But this computer is freaking boss. Can totally give you guys an upgrade.” Charlie’s fingers play across a few switches on the Bunker’s computer panel, pressing buttons that do Christ knows what. Even though Dean’s hands were never cut out for all this computer crap - he’d be the first to admit that his dexterity is good for one thing: killing.

But Sam watches her with bated breath; like a kid in a candy shop. He’s been talking for months about installing a new system, which is what has led to Charlie dropping in for a couple of weeks. Apparently she knows a guy who knows a guy who’s got a badass computer system that’s just right for their…job. And he’s apparently trustworthy enough (or Charlie has enough dirt on him, one or the other) to keep his trap closed about the whereabouts of their Batcave. As long as no one without a soul can find them, Dean doesn’t care. Sam can have all the toys he wants.

Dean follows them around, kind of feeling like a third-wheel. He isn’t a nerd in the millennial sense. Sure, this pseudo-domestic life they’ve been leading ever since the angels fell has allowed him to buy the boxset of Star Trek and he’s even got an Xbox with Halo 3 on it. He’s pretty content with having his tastes, always has been, he’s just never been afforded the time nor the home to have things that couldn’t fit into the Impala’s trunk.

Still, he’s not good with the technological crap. Dean clears his throat just as they walk into ‘HQ’ as Sam calls it - the room that contains the map of the freaking world - and Charlie begins to marvel at the supernatural monitors. “Hey—umm—don’t mean to break up the geekfest, but I’m going to do…something else.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Like what? Laundry?” Yeah, the bitch has made it his mission in life to tease Dean’s new lifestyle.

“Yeah, who else is going to clean your dirty tighty whities?” Dean quips back, and gives Sam the middle finger as he leaves the room. All he hears is Charlie’s airy laugh, and he can’t help but smile at that.

He’s internally praising himself—you know, mental best-big-brother-comeback-ever praise—as he makes his way down the living corridor. He passes his bedroom, peaks inside to check the hamper. It’s empty. He makes his way to Sam’s room and besides the hamper, which is in fact full, the room is spotless. Dean grabs the basket and sighs as he looks at the door directly across the hall.

Dean feels his stomach fall, and he grinds his jaw. The door is only cracked, and no light peers through it. It’s well past three, yet… _he_ hasn’t come out. Cas hasn’t come out.

The past few months have been awful for Cas, Dean knows that. But even after 40 grueling years of fire and brimstone and torture, Dean found his reason to get up in the morning. Well, that reason may have been a moppy-haired twenty-something year old he had the displeasure of calling ‘brother’ but—Cas should be able to lean on them. Dean swallows hard, fingers clenching around the rim of his laundry basket—he wants Cas to lean on  _him_.

Taking a deep breath, Dean rapts his knuckles against the door. When no response comes, he pushes it open. The light from the hallway pours inside, revealing the room. It’s clean, but obviously void of any personalization. Except for a picture of him and Sam that’s pinned to the closet door with a thumb tack—yeah, that always seems to make Dean’s stomach churn.

And the bed is a rumpled pile of quilts and sheets, and somewhere beneath it all is a fallen angel.

Trying to remain silent, Dean dumps Cas’s laundry into his basket and leaves.

 

* * *

 

For dinner, Dean makes ravioli from scratch. He sets the table for four, but only Sam and Charlie show. Thing about dinner is that Dean makes it and serves it at the same time every night, so Cas knows he should be there. If anything, Cas should smell the sweet mixture of meat sauce and cheese. He can’t help feeling a little pissed when he takes a seat at the end of the table and doesn’t have Cas across from Sam, on his right. It’s a damn shame too, because Dean got the good stuff tonight—Vanilla Coca-Cola.

Charlie is sitting next to Sam, and she stares into her plate for a moment before looking down the table at Dean. “Lover’s spat?” she asks, and Dean chokes on his drink, and curses as it burns his nose.

“What?” Dean demands, rubbing his sleeve across his mouth.

Sam suddenly heaves a sigh and turns to Charlie. “Thank you! I’m not the only one who thinks they bicker like a married couple.”

“Shudup Sam,” Dean warns as he chews.

“I didn’t mean to hit a sore spot,” Charlie murmurs innocently. “Or, maybe I did. Come on, didn’t you know ‘Likes to Start Shit’ is my middle name? I’ve been here all of two days and I’ve met the guy once. And those Supernatural books—yeah, pretty accurate. He’s a keeper, Dean.”

Dean rubs a hand across his face and groans miserably. “Just. Stop, please."

“Wow, you got him resorting to using the P word!” Sam and Charlie fist bump like freaking twelfth graders, but they both remain quiet for a while. It’s when they are all nearly done with their food and Dean’s gone to the kitchen, when he hears Charlie giggling with Sam again.

“I do not appreciate you guys gossiping in my house… about me,” Dean calls, returning to the table with a slice of pie on his plate. It’s an unspoken rule that, if you want pie, you buy your own.

“Come on, you gotta fill a girl in here!” Charlie says. “Like, okay. Tell me how long it took before you guys made it official—after the kiss.”

Dean blinks down at the fork full of pie. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb—book eighty-seven,  _Lucifer Rising_. The kiss!”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. The only kiss I remember is my own ass goodbye, pretty much every week for the past ten years.” Dean shoves a piece of pie past his lips and chews on it in lieu of just getting up and leaving.

“Does he really play stupid this much?” Charlie asks Sam.

“Ain’t playing.”

“Stop it, both of you!” Dean says. “I don’t know about no  _Lucifer Rising_ , or any goddamn kiss, or what this has to do with you two giggling like a bunch of girls—no offense Charlie.”

She raises her hands. “None taken, but dude. You really forgot?”

“Forgot what?”

“You and Castiel! Right before you go off to save Sam from that Ruby chick, or freeing Lucifer, or whatever, the kiss!!”

“Me and Cas? Kiss?” Dean croaks, eyes wide and mouth suddenly feeling way too dry. He downs the rest of his Coke and leans back in his chair. “I don’t know what saga you were reading, but it wasn’t definitely not ours—” he wags a finger between him and Sam “—in case you missed the first eighty-six volumes of my life, I’m straight.”

“Um, as I recall, you really weren’t in the position to give two shits when you were eating face with a sexy angel.”

Dean winces. “Oh my god, Charlie—I have never kissed—and never will—kiss Cas.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Dean echoes. “So you believe that the book is a crock of shit?” 

“Not really,” Charlie murmurs and takes a bite of ravioli.

Dean looks at Sam. “And you?”

All Sam does is raise and eyebrow before collecting his plate and going into the kitchen. “I believe that you don’t want to remember it, Dean… but Chuck was a prophet and even if the whole prose of it was bullshit—I—I read the scene.”

“You read it!?”

“Well, after Charlie was talking to me about the book…and you and Cas…”

Dean pushes away from the table and shoves his plate and Sam’s chest. Grabbing another clean plate, he dumps the rest of the ravioli and a slice of pie onto it. “Christ, this—I don’t know what to fucking say. I’m going to take Cas some food.”

 

* * *

 

“You awake buddy?” Dean calls into the dark.

“Yes.”

Dean swallows and pads over to the side of the bed and sits down on the edge. He pushes back the quilt, and Cas lays there, face down in his pillow. “You need to eat, Cas.”

“Not hungry,” comes a reply, a mumble into the pillow. Dean hesitantly drops a hand onto Cas’s shoulder. He flinches at the touch, but then relaxes and leans into it. Dean finds himself relaxing too, squeezing more than touching. The sudden warmth in his chest causes his hand to tear away.

“I know it’s been tough. Being human is tough. But I need you to eat something.” Cas rolls over and gives Dean a ‘go to hell’ look.

“Fine,” he groans and pulls himself up by his elbows so his back is flush against the headboard. Dean flips on the floor lamp, which makes Cas wince. “What is it?”

“Ravioli—pasta with meat sauce and cheese—and apple pie. All homemade.” Dean tries to smile, but it rolls off his lips because…Cas can’t return it—or won’t. He won’t because he’s too depressed about being human, which Dean gets. He’s pretty sure humanity sucks but, at the same time, it’s the only good thing. Free will, choice, all that jazz—it’s the whole point of being alive.

“Thank you,” Cas says quietly and takes the plate. He eats like he’s been starved, messy and desperate and Dean just watches. It’s all he can do not to reach over and brush his moppy black hair out of his face so he can actually see his food properly. Big brother instinct, Dean supposes.

“No problem, man. You should—come out, if you gotta chance. Later. Whenever you feel up to it.”

“I will…if I feel like it,” Cas replies with a mouthful.

 

* * *

 

“Do you, Sam Winchester, solemnly swear that this book in my hand is indeed Supernatural, volume eighty-seven, Lucifer Rising?” Charlie asks. “Oh, raise your right hand.”

Sam lifts his right hand and sighs. “I, Sam Winchester, do so solemnly swear that the book is…what you said.”

“And do you confirm that this book was indeed written by Carver Edlund, AKA Chuck Shurley, AKA Prophet of the Lord 1.0?”

“Yeah, I confirm it.”

“You two are fucking nerds. Just read me the scene,” Dean snaps at them from his arm chair, as they sit next to each other on the couch. Sam gives him a bitchface, for no real reason except for the fact he’s a bitch, and Charlie just flashes a smile.

“Just wanted to do this right, Dean-o. Can’t have you questioning the integrity of a prophet’s word.”

“I can question whatever the hell I want, just—read it.”

 

* * *

 

_Cradling a coffee-stained manuscript, Dean skims over the pages - inelegant composition, at best - and finds his breath stalling. “Saint Mary’s…what is that? A convent?” he asks, turning to look at Chuck._

_Eyes on the pages of his story, Chuck curtly huffs. “Yeah. But… you guys aren’t supposed to be there. You aren’t in this story.” It was true - the brothers did in fact have a knack for rewriting history, but never through the eyes of the prophet. Chuck has always written what happens, and it was nearly insulting to suggest that Dean and the angel could do what he never could: change the story._

_Castiel’s eyes hang low to the ground, and slowly rise to meet Chucks—and in the deep, blue depths is a declaration. “Yeah, well, we’re making it up as we go.” His eyes flick to his left, where Dean is standing, just as Dean raises his head to meet his gaze._

_Just as quickly as Castiel changed his mind about where he stood—with the angels or with the humans—Dean has learned that there is one being of God that he has faith in. A renegade angel with a frumpy trenchcoat and messy hair._

_Before Dean can rationalize where his train of thought was heading, the lights flicker and that deafening high-pitched noise (one he remembered from way back when Cas tried to angel-speak with him) erupted around the house._

_“What—oh man, not again!” Chuck runs a hand through his hair as the entire house begins to rattle._

_Dean bends over, sheltering his head as the windows shatter and shards spray over them. He feels a quick touch on his shoulder steady him; it’s Cas, whose eyes are wide and frantic, looking at Dean like he somehow held all the answers._

_“It’s the archangel!” Cas says, blinking hard once, but his gaze never fully leaving Dean’s. "I’ll hold them off—I’ll hold them all off—just—” he breaks off, stepping toward Dean in an uneven stride, staggered by something unseen—maybe himself. Dean, among the chaos, has always clung to the angel—the one who raised him from hell and pieced him together like a patchwork quilt. He swallows hard as the distance between them quickly closes, and their lips touch—only briefly, only slightly, before Castiel’s hand presses against his cheek. “Stop Sam,” he says, quieter, and Dean’s almost sure he imagined the pained look that crossed the angel’s face before two fingers pressed against his forehead, and he was gone._

* * *

 

“Whoa, whoa,  _whoa_ , it did not go down like that,” Dean whispers furiously, grabbing the book from Charlie’s hands and reads the page, and Christ it’s written exactly the way she read it (minus the dramatic inflections). “All he did was send me to Sam!”

“I’ve read the, erm, parts with me in it. It’s all word for word the same,” Sam tells him. “Why would Chuck…lie about that part and make you and Cas a thing?”

“For his readers?” Dean said. “Maybe he thought he’d make a couple bucks off some gay ship—you know, how in the earlier books he dramatized our relationship to make it seem like we had a mad bromance?”

“Excuse me—but from an impartial reader standpoint your bromance is pretty mad,” Charlie pipes up.

“Shut up!” Sam and Dean both say in unison, as the dark ‘slash’ in both of their memories is still a sore spot.

Dean leans back into the couch and runs a hand over his cheek. “I don’t know, I just know I didn’t kiss Cas.”

Unconvinced, Charlie snags the book from Dean’s hands and sighs. “Fine. Well, maybe your prophet has a couple screw loose—since he was, you know, there and all.”

“Or, there’s another possibility,” Sam says.

“Oh, enlighten me!”

“One word:  _foreshadowing_.” Sam breaks out into a fit of laughter, and Dean punches him hard in the shoulder. Charlie does smile, but there’s more than humor in it. It’s an idea.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Dean rolls out of bed slowly and trudges down the hall. He’s surprised when he finds the light is already on in the kitchen, and he hears the sudden clatter of pots. Dean picks up his pace, seeing a mop of black hair close to the ground, pale hands picking up a cooker that fell to the floor.

“Cas?” Dean says, confusion ringing in his voice.

Cas drops the pan again and turns around to face Dean. “Oh, hello Dean. You frightened me.”

“Well,” Dean laughs. “Not gonna lie, you’re scaring me too. You haven’t been out of your room in days.”

Cas blinks at him and grasps the pot firmly before setting on the stove. “I was hungry.”

“Let me do it.” Dean goes to the fridge and gets a carton of eggs. “How you like your eggs?”

“Cooked.” Cas’s eyebrows furrow. “Without salmonella.”

Dean tries to laugh, but finds himself pitying the guy. “Alright then. Just sit on down, I’ll whip up some eggs and toast, then we can eat. Sam and Charlie can cook their own damn breakfast.”

Cas actually listens and sits down at the dining table. Months of practice in the kitchen allow Dean to have food ready within minutes and he sits down beside Cas with two plates. Before Dean can even pick up his fork, Cas stabs a piece of scrambled egg and chews it like—like he’s never eaten.

“This is very good, thank you.”

“No problem…” Dean replies uncertainly. “Hey, man, you alright?”

“I am good. I…” Cas pauses to chew, and then lays his fork down before tilting his head. “I believe there has been a chemical imbalance in my body, due to under exposure to sunlight.”

“Uh, say what?”

“I have been in the bunker for a long while, and I haven’t been exposed to sun, and therefore vitamin D. When one lacks in it—”

“They get mopey and moody and won’t come out of their room for days at a time?” Dean says.

Castiel frowns a little and resumes eating. “Yes.”

“Well. I gotta go for a grocery run today. Charlie apparently also needs some lady…stuff, I don’t know. When she and Sam wake up we can all go together. So um, when you’re done,” Dean murmurs, pointing to Cas’s plate. “Just put it in the sink and go wash up. I need a shower.”

Leaving the kitchen, Dean yawns despite himself and his eyes flutter shut just long enough for him to miss walking into a warm body stationed just outside the kitchen entryway. His limbs snap to attention and a feminine squeak rings in his ears.

“Charlie? What are you doing snooping out here?”

“Well—caught in the act I guess. Just listening to you and angel boy.”

“He ain’t no angel anymore, at least not a conventional one,” Dean tells her with a twist in his lower lip, one of annoyance.

“But he’s still your angel,” Charlies says slowly, and then squeaks again. “I can’t tell you how cliche you guys are. It’s awesome.”

Dean snorts. “Go get your ass dressed and wake up Sammy, we’re going shopping. Cas wants out of here and, frankly, so do I. We can go down to that Best Buy and you can get that whatsitcalled-computer-thing you were talking about yesterday.”

“Jesus, Dean, it’s just a USB cord for—nevermind what it is, us nerds will take care of it,” Charlie says casually. Dean, in return, just stares at her. “Going to get dressed, bro!” And she pads off back down the dormitory hall.

 

* * *

 

After shopping is done, they go to this small park just a block down from the elementary school. It’s early enough in the day that it’s void of any children. The swings are too small for Dean’s ass, but he doesn’t see that as a huge issue. He plops down on one, wincing as the chains audibly strain. But they don’t break.

“Cas! C’mon, I’ll teach you to swing,” he shouts to Cas, who lingers next to the car by Sam and Charlie (who are chatting quietly about something that seems very important, but Dean’s not really in the mood to spoil teaching Cas to swing).

He saunters over finally, with obvious hesitation, and sits on the swing adjacent to Dean. His legs are longer, drag against the ground as he goes back and forth. Dean explains how you position your legs when you go back and forward, and he catches on pretty quick. Soon enough they’re both going back and forth. Once Dean builds up enough momentum, he wings forward one final time - up high - and then lets himself slide from the seat. Cas calls out his name as he does it, and fumbles off his own swing just as Dean lands safely on his feet. Dean turns to smile, but Cas is knee deep in playground mulch and wearing a sore, pained expression.

“Cas!” Dean shouts and runs to him, dropping down to his knees. Cas rolls back, both of his hands wrapped tightly around his ankle, and he’s breathing fast, hot breaths. “What did you do?”

“I think I broke it. This,” he says, hissing as he lets go of his ankle. “It hurts.”

“Alright, it’s okay. We can—” Dean turns to look over his shoulder, and Sam and Charlie are already walking over.

“What happened?” asks Sam.

“He broke his ankle—falling of the damn wing,” Dean laughs, turning back to look at Cas. “We can get you to a hospital, they’ll do some x-rays and cast you up.” He holds Cas’s knew while he examines his ankle; it’s already bruised and swollen-looking, but no bones are protruding from his skin so that’s a good sign. “It’ll be alright.”

“Why did you jump off?” Cas’s brow furrows as he gazes up at Dean. “I thought—why?”

Dean’s stomach drops as he realizes Cas fell trying to protect him. “Because it’s supposed to feel like flying.”

“But you hate flying,” Sam says from behind them, which in turn results in Dean turning around to give him a ‘go to hell’ look.

“I’m sorry I scared ya’, man, I really am,” Dean tells Cas, squeezing his knee. “Let’s—let’s just fix you up, okay?”

 

* * *

 

“So this is coming from complete experience, Cas, so you listen close. When you’ve got a bum leg—especially casted up—Dean is going to make you watch all six episodes of Star Wars. It’s a done deal. The first three will be hell because Dean’ll make you start with A New Hope, and he’ll be quoting Han Solo the entire time. But you’ll probably be so doped up by the fourth movie that the last two—and arguably the worst—will be a breeze.”

Castiel nods dumbly with wide, calculating eyes as he settles down on the couch in the bunker’s living room. Charlie helps him situate, putting a pillow beneath his back and then under his ankle—wrapped in a blue and green cast.

“I think I capice,” Cas murmurs uncertainly. “Although I do not think that any human activity could be so miserable with Dean in my company.”

Charlie makes a noise and bounces on her toes, covering her smile. At this, Sam smiles a bit and then rolls his eyes.

“Just don’t cuddle too hard, man.”

Cas’s brows furrow. “That’s an oxymoron. Softness is implied in cuddling.”

“Sometimes ‘too hard’ refers to quantity rather than intensity,” Sam laughs. “But good dodge their, Cas. You’ve been avoidance learning from the best.”

“I don’t have an idea what you mean—”

“What doesn’t Cas know?” Dean asks as he enters the room with a bucket of chicken and two beer necks clenched in his fist. He gives one to Sam and the other to Cas, leaving himself with the bucket of chicken.

“You think he should drink with his pain meds?” Sam asks.

“He ain’t gonna die from one beer, Sammy,” Dean says dismissively. He sits down on the floor, leaning against the couch and reaches for the remotes sitting on the table in front of him. “…time for an education in how to be badass, Han Solo style…”

 

* * *

 

While he’s off his leg, Castiel tries not to recede back into his room. He truly does. Instead he occupies himself with television and movies that Dean leaves for him while he’s off running errands or cooking or helping Sam and Charlie renovate the bunker to fit their new equipment.

But when he runs out of things to watch, he takes a pair of seldom used crutches and huddles to the kitchen. He isn’t hungry, he just wants a change of scenery. He wouldn’t mind seeing the sky again. On the counter space is Charlie’s backpack, with some notebooks strewn about.It occurs to Castiel that he shouldn’t snoop, but what catches his eyes is an illustration of wings—dark wings—stemming from a surly man who oddly resembles Sam.

 _Lucifer Rising_ , the title reads. Understanding, Castiel realizes that this is Chuck Shurely’s gospel of the rise of Lucifer. Fascinated, he picks up the book and flips through the pages idly. There is a bookmark, just a scratch of paper, holding it open to a page. Castiel skims down, blinking when he sees his own name. How odd to think that an angel was written into a gospel. It hadn’t been done since Gabriel himself.

He continues reading, his mind wrapping around this moment. He remembers the night when his plan to provoke the archangel Raphael succeeded. He died that night. But… the way the book accounts the moments before…

Castiel slams the cover shut and sets the book down. The gospel _lied_. Usually manipulation of God’s prophecies doesn’t occur for decades after its declaration—but here, in this text, contains a lie.

And it pertains to him.

 

* * *

 

“I’m gonna miss you Cas,” Charlie says as she wraps her arms around the fallen angel. Cas has finally picked up on the nature of hugging. It’s apparently a two-sided gesture, but he’s only learned that by watching Sam and Dean. As brooding as they are, they hug quite a lot.

Castiel, in return, wraps his arms around Charlie, still awkward but it makes Charlie smile. They break and she sets a hand firmly on his shoulder, her expression taking a serious note.

“You take care of my brothers, alright?” she says, almost sadly, before smiling. “I know you already do a good job, just, don’t let clipped wings stop you from doing what you do best.”

Despite himself, blush fills Castiel’s cheeks. “Thank you Charlie. I will protect them.” His eyes flick to Dean’s only for a moment. “With my life.”

Charlie seems as if she is about to explode and she jerks to look at Dean. “You are such a fucking liar. You did make out and don’t deny it!”

Like a deer in headlights, Dean takes a moment to glance at Cas who is equally thrown off by her accusation. He then hardens his expression before crossing his arms tight across his chest. “Charlie, I told you it didn’t, now drop it.”

“Are you referring to the—the scene,” Castiel speaks up quietly. “In Chuck Shurely’s novel?”

“Aha! See, mister Angel of the Lord knows about it!” Charlie declares.

“I saw the book laying in the kitchen. I apologize for invading your things, but… curiosity is much more potent when one is human.” Castiel bites his lower lip and glances at Dean quickly. “I can corroborate that Dean and I did not kiss that night, and have never kissed since. Chuck blasphemously soiled the gospel, the word of God himself.”

“Just saying, Chucks books were pretty trashy anyways,” Sam murmurs.

“Nevertheless, there were never lies. Chuck wrote the truth and Dean and I have never been intimate in that way.”

“And never will be,” Dean adds, and ice seems to chill over the room. Even Castiel’s adamant expression breaks and his blue eyes crystallize.

“Dean…” Sam says to him, reaching to touch his arm, but Dean jerks away.

Charlie, on the other hand, looks pained as her eyes flash between Castiel and Dean, and she forces a smile onto her lips. “Call me, guys, if anything’s up with the new system just give me a call.”

Sam nods, morose. “We will.”

 

* * *

 

The day Castiel gets his cast off, Dean comes into the doctors office with him. Mostly Dean doesn’t want to leave Cas alone in a room with a person holding a saw, not when practically anyone could be a fallen angel with a bone to pick.

As the dull blade saws through the thick cast material, Castiel squirms on the bed and grasps for Dean’s wrist. He flinches at the touch, the connection, but soon relaxes into it. He replaces his wrist with his fingers, and their hands weave together as if they were two puzzle pieces.

The doctor leaves them alone again, but Cas still doesn’t let go of his hand. He just looks up at Dean, curious and confused all at once.

“Can I have my hand back?” Dean chuckles, trying to brush off the warmth still present within his chest.

Castiel releases him immediately. “Of course.” A moment later, the statement is followed by, “Do I disgust you, Dean?”

“What?” Dean blurts, shaking his head. “No…’course I don’t. Why?”

“What you said… to Charlie. You never want to be intimate with me.”

Dean flushes a deep red, and shakes his head. “That’s because you’re my friend, not—not because I think you’re gross. Shit, Cas, not for nothing but you’d be a catch.” And suddenly the warmth that was ever-so present in his chest is replaced with ice.

“A catch,” Castiel repeats. “And who would want to catch fallen angel?”

The question is so soft, so broken that Dean almost forgot that Cas is still so torn over the fact.

Instead attempting to conjure an answer, Dean pretend that he didn’t even hear the question.

 

* * *

 

Dean has an itch. From the moment they left the doctor’s office, to the time they got back to the bunker, through the night and through the next morning, and at dinner the next night—Castiel’s question bothers him.

For years, Dean’s single purpose has been to hold Sam up. Sam was that fragile thing that had to constantly monitor and protect. Cas, on the other hand, was invincible. He’d never let himself care for anyone, because everyone he loves dies anyways. But Cas was an angel. He died and came back more times than Dean can really remember and he’s bled and healed andbreathed when he should have died. It was safe to care for him.

And countless times, Dean almost let himself believe that Cas could last. But he always left, alive or not. But now that Cas is human, that Cas could crumble and fade just as easily as the rest of the world, Dean cares for him more than ever.

_Who would want to catch a fallen angel?_

Dean, staring down into his dinner plate, suddenly pushes away from his seat. “I need some air.”

Sam looks up at him concerned. “Okay…?”

“Cas, I need to talk to you,” Dean adds, waving a hand over his shoulder. Castiel’s confused expression morphs into one of slight fear. He rises from his seat slowly and follows Dean.

Once they are both outside the bunker, cool air bites at their skin. Dean regrets not grabbing a bigger jacket, but then his jaw grinds when he realizes Castiel is wearing nothing but a tshirt and jeans. He sheds his jacket and hands it to Cas.

“Thank you,” Castiel says and shrugs it on through a shiver. “What did you want to talk about?”

“About the night that Raphael came.”

Castiel blinked a few times. “The night I died.”

“The night that Chuck wrote that we—that we…kissed,” Dean mumbles. “Look, just let me know if I’m way off base here. But… did you want to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Kiss me, damn it!” Dean grinds out, regretting saying that word—kiss— over and over. It feels weird with Cas. “Did you want to?”

“No,” Castiel answers curtly.

“Oh.” Dean swallows, and turns around to face away from Cas. He inhales slowly, exhales quickly, and goes for the door. “Alright.”

Then there is a hand grabbing him, his shoulder. It’s Cas, forcing him to stop walking. Dean nearly growls because he wants to run. Even in the open, he feels trapped—trapped by the sudden feeling of everything being one-sided. He doesn’t even know with everything is. It’s the way Cas looks at him—has looked at him—and the way his lips curl up into a knowing smile. It’s his rough voice, the way he says Dean’s name. It’s how that same hand that’s holding him back has literally held him back whenever the unbidden rage threatened to consume him. And, in a way, that hand that knows him so well was the same hand that sculpted him from burned flesh and ash into a living, breathing, thing.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “Don’t leave because you didn’t like my answer. That’s cowardly.”

Laughing cruelly, Dean does turn back around. “Way to kick a guy when he’s down.”

His brows furrow as if Cas doesn’t understand the analogy, but he shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. “The first time that I thought about kissing you was when we were pursuing Famine,” he begins slowly, and Dean actually feels his heart skip a startled beat. “I recognized the hunger the moment I saw you, in the morgue. That’s why I thought—the Cupid was involved. Because I realized I loved you then.”

“…Cas…” Dean croaks miserably.

“Without Famine’s influence, I couldn’t comprehend how love could be conveyed through touches, through things like kisses. I was so lost that when I thought you were going to leave me, by taking Michael, I acted out. I hurt you. And I promised myself I wouldn’t hurt you again, and I have broken that promise many times over.” Castiel pauses to lick his dry lips, a motion that Dean cannot help but watch. “And when I found you in Lawrence…bleeding and broken, I touched you and healed you. I wanted to do so much more. That was the second time I wanted to kiss you.”

Dean is speechless, shaking his head in disbelief. Yet his heart is racing with excitement, with fear. Whatever becomes of this it is either terrible or the best thing to ever happen to Dean.

“Countless times between then and now I have wanted to kiss you, Dean,” Castiel says slowly. “Most recently, now.”

“Then,” Dean murmurs, voice cracking—maybe because of the cold, because his body is so cold. Warmth comes in waves when he steps just a little closer to Cas. “Let me help you out a bit.” Like that, the cold—everywhere—is gone when Cas’s lips are covered by Dean’s. It’s soft and chaste, beginning with mere touch and progressing into something gentle, in which Dean cradles the back of Cas’s neck to deepen it. Shortly after it’s began, Dean pulls away just to look into Cas’s eyes.

He breaks into a smile. “I wanna see a prophet write about that,” he laughs softly.

“I believe,” Castiel whispers. “There’s no one writing our destiny.” His palm touches Dean’s cheek, fingertips brushing the tops of Dean’s cheekbone. “We’re… making it up as we go.”


End file.
